Goddamn (But I Love Him Anyway)
by TomiSama04
Summary: Even as Sam asked, he knew. He was a homicide detective. Looking away wasn't the same as not knowing. (Cop!AU, Samifer, Destiel, Prostitution, Murder)


Samifer Week 2013 #2: Monday, October 14, 2013

**Goddamn (But I Love Him Anyway)**

Pairings: Samifer (SamxLucifer), Destiel (DeanxCastiel)  
Ratings: Explicit  
Warnings: Cop!AU, jealous!Sam, UndercoverProstitute!Lucifer, Explicit Murder, sort-of Blood!Kink, violence, sex, mafia connections  
Words: 7100  
My Tumblr: talesfromperdition

Notes: This fic was inspired by "Miss Jackson" by Panic! at the Disco.

* * *

When Sam Winchester walked into the briefing room, his eyes were quick to scan over the evidence tacked to the corkboards. Dean and his partner, Victor, were leading the investigation, and as they were setting up, the pair of them had been secretive. Sam told his brother that he wasn't decorating for a surprise party, but the older Winchester was always enthusiastic about big cases, and he just grinned.

Sam would go over it later in more detail, but nothing jumped out at him just then, so he turned his attention to the room.

There were a bunch of different people from the department at the briefing, not just the Homicide Detectives and the beat guys who would help with manpower. Sam sat next to Castiel but turned in his seat, scanning through the faces of the guys he knew worked down in Vice.

Castiel's eyes remained on his phone as he asked, "Nick isn't up here with the other Vice guys?"

"I think he's undercover," Sam said, frowning. He turned back to face forward, crossing his arms over his chest. "They think all the vics were johns?"

"A murdering prostitute," Castiel said with a sigh. "No wonder Dean's so happy."

"Tell me about it. Usually when he invites me over for dinner after work, and I turn him down, he gets all pissy."

"That's my fault, actually," the head of the DNA and Trace said. "Balthazar's new restaurant opened, and I managed to get a reservation for us. Between a murdering prostitute and a delicious meal, he might actually put out for our anniversary this year."

"I heard that, Cas," Dean said, his grin widening. "Alright, everyone. Phones away and eyes up here. I know you all know these cases individually, but seeing as that's not getting us anywhere, we thought all three victims might have been killed by the same perpetrator. We have three vics so far: Don Stark, his wife admits that she knew he was buying company, he's an art dealer and he died a year ago; Zachariah Adler, a higher-up at Sandover, died six months ago; and Warren Pace, a sketchy-as-fuck arms dealer who was suspected of supplying the Turkish crime syndicate, Kayipmalek, who died two months ago."

"And Warren was murdered by a prostitute? Doesn't it seem more likely he was murdered because, oh, I don't know, he's a sketchy-as-fuck arms dealer for the Turkish mob?" Sam asked.

Dean looked at Castiel. The head tech had put away his phone, but he was still reading over reports, only half-listening. The bastard probably got the scoop on the whole story as a perverse sort of pillow talk. How Castiel knew it was his turn to speak up, Sam never knew, but the cop and the geek had always been creepily in sync, even back in college when they started dating.

"All three vics had sex within the hour prior to death," Castiel said, flipping the page. Sam looked over his shoulder at the report. It wasn't even for the same case.

"DNA?"

"Nope. Our perp's good. All three vics wore a condom. Perp took the condoms after to dispose of it away from the crime scene."

"What gentlemen," Dean added. "Unless the perp wanted it as a trophy."

"I swept all three crime scenes. There's hardly a trace anyone was ever in the room with any of them. No hair, no sweat, no prints," Castiel turned to look at Sam. "Do you have any idea how difficult it is to have sex with someone and leave no trace of yourself behind? The killer had plenty of time to murder the vics and clean up."

"Do you think…?"

"It seems like he knows his protocols," Dean shrugged. "Could have a background in law enforcement, or he could have gotten busted on prostitution before and learned how to make a clean getaway. Hard to say."

"Hard to say, still," Castiel went on. "That the perp _is_ a man."

"The victims were had their throat slit by a knife. Women serial killers are extremely rare, and ones who choose knives as their weapon as choice is rarer still."

"None of the men had any inclination of having interest in other men, though, Dean," Castiel said with a frown. His voice was set, and Sam knew they must have talked about it prior to the meeting. "Not even a smidgen of gay porn on their laptops, phones, or anything else."

Dean ignored him. "I would have guessed it was a dominate gone seriously wrong, but…"

"But what?" Sam asked.

"It's not a dom. Not someone posing as a dom, anyway. Nothing in the men's backgrounds suggest they were into the lifestyle. I think our perp just wanted to cut them up. I think it's the blood," Castiel said, looking up at Dean for a moment. Then, he turned to the whiteboard, scanning the crime scene photos once more. "The killer would have been covered in it, but nobody reported seeing or hearing anything suspicious. The bathtub and drain were cleaned with bleach, so there's nothing to go on there. Our perp knows his stuff."

He was right. All three victims were covered in blood. It spread over the sheets, pooling on the floor. The stabbing wasn't random or out of control. They were all killed with one or two slashes; the wounds were precise – deep slits across major arteries – and the perp definitely knew how to handle a blade.

Sam took a deep breath in, palming his cell phone and praying it would ring.

* * *

Later that night, Sam pulled up on a side street in the city, a block and a half away from the upscale hotel. The old Chevrolet he was sitting in wasn't the one he learned to drive in – no, the Impala would be in Dean and Castiel's garage or maybe at a different upscale hotel, if Castiel got his way – but Nick's candy red model felt like home the same way the Impala did.

Sam ran his fingers though his hair and waited.

It was less than five minutes later that Nick walked around the corner. He had on one of his nice suits, his hair still wet from the hotel shower, and Sam's fist hit the steering wheel even though he wasn't living in a fantasy world. By the time the older man took off his satchel and sat in the passenger seat next to Sam, the homicide detective had schooled his face into a neutral frown.

But Nick saw past that in an instant. He sighed as he pulled the door shut and strapped himself in. Sam pulled away from the curb, jaw set, determined to stay silent the whole ride back to his apartment.

He lasted until they hit the first stoplight forty-two seconds later.

"Have fun at work today?"

Nick rolled his eyes and patted his bag. "Think I've got enough evidence to close an illegal gambling ring, actually. I don't like having meaningless sex with old ladies, Sam. I like having meaningless sex with you."

Sam couldn't help the small smile, and when the light turned green, he felt Nick's hand rest over his. Nick was one of the older guys in Vice – most of the other guys Nick's age were in homicide, but the officer claimed he couldn't stand the sight of blood, so homicide was out for him – but he loved Vice. He was good at it. They met when Sam was fresh off the beat. Sam's first case involved a high class male escort service, and he hadn't realized that Nick was deep undercover at the time.

Needless to say, the rest of the Vice Squad thought it was funny when Sam dragged Nick in for questioning.

They didn't start dating until after Sam moved up to homicide – unlike the CIA, the department regulations went against dating within a unit – but the entire time, Sam knew what Nick had to do for his job.

It didn't make him any less jealous. "Some of those women are trophy wives," he murmured into the darkness, and he heard Nick smirk.

"Let me restate the fact that I don't enjoy having meaningless sex with women at all, Sam," the man said, voice sincere. "I can only get it up when I think of you."

Sam laughed, knowing that wasn't the case. Lucifer was undercover long before Sam was on the force, "Yeah, right. I know there are plenty other things that get you excited."

The detective heard the seatbelt unbuckle, then the sound of the satchel hitting the floor. They wouldn't get pulled over. The beat cops knew Nick's car as well as they knew the Impala. Still, when Sam felt his boyfriend's body move closer, his palm pressing against Sam's thigh, and his calm breathing in his ear, Sam knew that the cops should pull them over.

He wasn't driving all that safely.

"Three more blocks, Nick."

"I know a better place," the man said, voice slipping into the softer, cooler persona he used with the women he needed something from. Sam licked his lips. "You want to play, Detective Winchester?"

Sam didn't say anything. The older man sat up, reaching across Sam to flick the turning signal to the right. The detective got in the next lane over, then turned, driving out to toward the desert. Before he met the Vice Officer, Sam hadn't been out to the desert to mess around in a backseat of a car since high school. The other man loved it, especially when they played their games.

And Sam loved it too. He loved everything about the officer. He really did.

Before Sam pulled off the road, nimble fingers started working his belt and fly open, rubbing his palm over Sam's growing erection through his underwear. Sam pulled off into the sand and drove far enough away so their car wouldn't be immediately spotted by passersby. He flicked the lights off before killing the ignition. He was trying to get himself out of his pants, but the other man grinned and held him down by his hips.

"Nick," Sam begged. "Nick, please."

The blond man's lips found Sam's neck, pressing a soft kiss over his artery, before backing up again. "Remember, Sam. We can't get anything on the car. Not a single drop. I want no trace evidence at all. Understand?"

"Yes. Yes, Nick, please."

He heard the small, displeased sound from his partner, so Sam looked up at him. His eyebrows were raised, his mouth spread in a toothy smile. He knew what he'd said wrong before the other man corrected. "Nick's your boyfriend. He's a cop. I'm just a prostitute. What's my name, Sam?"

The man leaned forward again, biting over the spot he had kissed moments before.

"Lucifer," Sam called out. "Your name is Lucifer."

"That's right," Lucifer praised, kissing over the bite mark before helping Sam get his pants part of the way down his thighs. Sam remembered the first time he had heard about the call man – most of his lady johns called him Luce – but even from the first time they played the game, Lucifer had insisted Sam use the whole name. Sam remembered the first time Sam realized why Nick had given himself that name as his alias. Christ, he had come so hard that night. "Remember, Sam. Not a drop."

"I promise. I've been getting better."

"Better isn't good enough, you know," Lucifer said, tugging Sam's hips toward him just a bit, moving himself back. He pushed up Sam's shirt, kissing and nipping at the flesh at his stomach. His hand wrapped around Sam's erection, giving long, lazy strokes to tease the detective. "We need perfection. Here, let me show you first."

Lucifer was careful. He was a professional. His tongue teased at Sam's head for a moment before slipping it past his lips. The man could make Sam beg for an hour, and he could finish him off in a minute and a half. Sam knew that they were going for a record when Lucifer's hands pressed into Sam's thighs and he swallowed him down.

Part of the game meant that they couldn't leave trace anywhere in the car. That was why he had to keep his underwear on, to keep from leaving any dead skin or sweat on the upholstery. When they were in Sam's bed, the detective liked to play with his partner's hair, taking it slow until Nick was writhing with pleasure and begging for release. Here, he wouldn't dare touch Lucifer's hair in fear of accidentally pulling some out and leaving it behind. Even though they didn't count fingerprints for this game – they could wipe the car down in a matter of seconds – Sam kept his hands on himself or on Lucifer's shoulders.

He was a detective. He knew how not to leave evidence behind.

In no time, Sam was gasping. His fingers were digging into Lucifer's shirt. He didn't need to warn his partner; Lucifer knew Sam's tells far better than Sam knew himself. The man kept his mouth around the head, tongue stimulating jis frenulum, hand moving on the shaft. Sam came, trying to be studious and watch how Lucifer kept every drop from spilling out and leaving evidence behind. He was thorough, licking Sam clean even as the detective whined and tried to shove him away. Then, Lucifer wiped his saliva covered hand on his own undershirt and helped Sam back into his clothes.

He leaned back against his own seat, watching as Sam came down. He waited – he was always very patient – until Sam was ready and able to continue. He didn't ask for it; he just waited until Sam would come to him.

Because Sam always came to him.

"I know you can do this, Sam," Lucifer said, cupping Sam's cheek once the detective moved forward. Sam started unbuttoning and unzipping his partner, careful as he tugged the pants down enough to free him. "I believe in you."

As Sam worked Lucifer with his hand for a moment, the older man gathered Sam's hair at the base of his neck. He took the hair tie off his own wrist to wrap around his partner's hair to pull it back. When Sam looked up, Lucifer grinned. "It's actually pretty handsome."

"Oh, yeah?" The detective asked, leaning down to lick at the man's cock but keeping his eyes up on his face.

"Definitely. But I think a hat will work better to keep your hair from falling. I would suggest cutting it, but I love it as much as you do," Lucifer settled back against the door once more. "It would be a sin to cut your hair."

Sam wasn't nearly as talented as Lucifer – his gag reflex was much stronger – but the detective never had to fight long. Early on in their relationship, they perfected quickies. It was necessary during long shifts, and that was when the trace game started as well. Dean was suspicious, and if he asked Castiel to sweep over Lucifer's car, then who cared if he was wasting resources for his own sick needs?

That had been over a year ago. Now Dean knew better, but wouldn't he be surprised when a sweep would turn up empty?

"Okay, Sam," Lucifer groaned, hand finding the detective's bicep and squeezing. "You can do it. Just pretend that if you leave anything behind that we'll both be arrested and sentenced to life in prison if not death. I find that's a good motivator."

Sam wanted to ask how often he used that thought in the middle of having an orgasm, but he didn't dare pull back and risk leaving the DNA behind. It was a small motivator, after all, and when he felt the first of it on his tongue, he made sure to keep lips sealed around the head. He put his hand under him, just in case, but it wasn't necessary. When it was over, he swallowed and set to work cleaning up his partner, just as Lucifer had done to him.

Lucifer's chest was heaving, his eyes shut, and Sam let him have his come down. His palm ran over his thigh, still covered by his pants, and when the man's eyes opened again, Sam knew it would be safe to call him by his birth name once again.

Nick grinned. "Let's get the kit."

The pair of them scrambled out of the car, and Sam popped the trunk. Neither one of them had an official trace kit like Castiel had, but they had a dufflebag with a black light, a flashlight, tweezers, gloves, and a handful of other things. First, they checked their clothes for semen, then they checked the interior of the car.

Nick grinned, backing out of the car and leaning against his boyfriend. "We're good on semen," he pressed a kiss to Sam's lips, a small reward for a job well done. "Let's check for trace fibers."

In the end, they did find hair, but it was just as likely from the ride over as the sex. And they cleaned up easily. When they got back into the car, Nick took the wheel, a grin still plastered on his face. Sam bucked his seatbelt and heard his boyfriend say, "I'm very proud of you."

Nick started the car and Sam looked out the window. "I love you, too."

"Love has nothing to do with it. I would still love you even if you weren't so good at the trace game. It just so happens, I'm both proud of you _and_ I love you," Nick turned around, driving back through the desert and getting back upon the road. It didn't take long for them to get back to Sam's apartment. Sometimes, they could fool around again, but Nick was chatty. He was happy with the evidence he got and happy their game worked so well. To be honest, Sam was happy too. He was almost giddy with it.

"I know it's late," Nick said, pulling Sam toward the kitchen. "But let me make something for dinner."

"Sure, Nick," Sam said, sitting on the stool next to the island counter. "Whatever you want."

* * *

Their anniversary bliss was short lived, Sam knew, because when he walked into the briefing room the next morning, Dean and Castiel were having a hushed conversation in front of corkboard with the pictures of the dead men. Sam walked toward them, holding out the two extra coffees as a peace treaty, and both of them looked happy for the break.

The three of them sat for a long moment, sipping their coffee and looking over the wall of information before them.

Sam scanned more carefully. As Castiel said, there was no DNA, no trace, nothing to link the three men together other than the fact they had had sex within an hour of their death and they were all killed using a blade with consistent injuries. Their deaths weren't drawn out – they didn't suffer long – they blacked out when their blood pressure dropped, and they bled out in seconds.

The younger Winchester bit his lip, his chest tightening at the thought of seeing that happen and not just the aftermath.

"I still don't think our perpetrator is a man, Dean," Castiel said softly, twisting his wedding band around his finger with his thumb. "I can't dig up a shred of evidence that any of these guys could have hired a man. I even asked Nick if he'd ever seen them on the circuit, but he couldn't remember ever seeing their faces among the men who try to hire him through their fake company for stings."

They were quiet for a long time, but it was Dean who broke the silence. "How long did you stay hidden for?"

"I told you how it was for me."

"Oh, so, you didn't go to prostitutes first? Confused, ashamed, and scared, you didn't go to one of the boys on the street? You went right to a club?" Dean wasn't looking at either of them, and Sam wanted to leave the room. His brother was admitting something about his husband – Sam's brother-in-law – that Sam didn't need to hear.

"Not everyone is raised by crazy religious assholes," Castiel whispered, bringing his hand to his wrist. He had a dark mark there – Sam had noticed it before – but he couldn't tell what it was. Castiel always had it covered with a watch. "My experiences don't appear to be the same as the victim's, Dean. If they were hiding, they were doing a lot better job of it than I ever did."

"I'm not ruling anything out, Cas. All I'm saying is that we need to keep our options open. We can't eliminate it's a man, because we know – we _both_ know – how easy it is to hide."

At that, Sam did need to turn and leave the briefing room because things were going to get emotional and Dean had always combated emotions with sex, and Sam had a hard enough time dropping evidence off in Castiel's office without adding the actual image along with the mental one.

Just as he shut the door, he felt a hand on his hip. He grinned as he turned to his boyfriend, and Nick smiled back up at him. "We're going to get a big one, tonight."

"Oh, yeah. Who?"

"Can't release any details yet," Nick said, dropping his voice. "But it's going to be a good one. It might even have to do with organized crime. But I think it's going to take a bit more to work him over. You might have to pick me up later than usual."

Sam leaned forward too late, kissing his boyfriend to get him to stop talking. After a short moment, he pulled back and whispered, "You aren't allowed to talk about your cases to me, remember. Certainly not up here."

Nick grinned, his blue eyes holding Sam's until he backed away and turned around. "We're alone, Sam. So unless you've got a wire on, nobody will ever know I accidentally told."

The younger Winchester rolled his eyes. "Before you go change into your whore clothes, I think my brothers want to talk to you. They're running down a new angle that the men were with a male prostitute that night."

"Oh really," Nick said, raising his eyebrows. "Why would they want to talk to me about that?"

"Just get in there," Sam said. "Tell them whatever you need to, and go get the big bad. I'll come whenever you call."

"Yeah, you will," Nick said, shooting a wink at Sam before pushing the door open to the briefing room and walking inside.

* * *

It was a long time later – hours later – when Sam was sitting in traffic on his way home from work, that he realized Nick had said him. Lucifer was going to work _him_ over. For a second, the jealousy bubbled up inside him, just like it had last time and the two times before that. He was seeing red, laying on his horn even though he knew that wouldn't help traffic move any faster, and he wanted to find him.

He wished he knew how to find out where Lucifer would be meeting the john. But that would never happen. They would never, ever release that information to Nick's boyfriend. And Sam doubted they knew every meeting that went on, anyway.

Sam could kill him. He could kill the bastard who was fucking his boyfriend.

But instead, the detective took a deep breath in, and reached for his cell phone. Nick – or maybe he was already Lucifer by now – would be driving to the meet, or maybe he was still getting ready. It wasn't likely that they were having sex right now.

Sam licked his lips and pressed the contact number to dial. It went right to voicemail, and Sam knew that this might be the most important message he ever left in his life.

"Hey, Nick! It's just me, stuck in traffic. I was hoping to get to you, but oh well. What do you want for dinner? I thought after what I made yesterday was _so good_, that we were going to make something together. Wouldn't you like to teach me? I just thought I'd stop and get the stuff on the way. Let me know what to get, if you get this message before I come get you tonight. Alright. I love you."

The detective frowned, hanging up and sitting his phone on the seat beside him. Traffic had started moving, but Sam slammed his palm into the steering wheel anyway.

* * *

Sam Winchester sat in his apartment at watched the clock. At six or seven, Lucifer usually went to dinner with the ladies. By eight they were back in the hotel, having sex or doing whatever it was that women and prostitutes do before they actually have sex. At some point, the deal for the information would come up. They'd do business, and Nick would text Sam where the rendezvous point was, somewhere within walking distance to the hotel, and then the officer would show up with the sex already cleaned from him.

Most nights, Sam wouldn't bring up the fact that his boyfriend had just fucked someone else because more often than not, he didn't get off anyway. He came home riled up and wanting something real – some meaningless sex with someone he loved – and that had always been enough for Sam.

But not a man. Not again. Not by himself.

Men were unpredictable. Men murdered prostitutes for fun, for control, to make themselves feel bigger and better than they were. Men were violent and rough, and Nick – even when he was Lucifer – didn't deserve someone to use his body like that.

Sam didn't deserve knowing that somebody else was using the body he loved so much like that.

Sometimes with the women, the deal could be done by nine pm. So when nine came and went, Sam started getting antsy. He almost started drinking, but he needed to pick up his boyfriend. Sam thought he had done so well. He thought they'd been so good together, but…

It was 11:04, and his phone started ringing.

Sam hit the button and read the message: _'Car Park on 15__th__ and Bluffs Blvd. Let's go out to eat after. Wear something fancy.'_

Sam read the message three times, his heart was beating out of his chest, and he had never driven so fast in his life. The detective parked the car and gripped the wheel, following protocol, until he saw Lucifer making his way toward them. It wasn't Nick; no, the call boy persona carried himself differently. Both of them were confident, but Lucifer was sexual about it. He was a flatterer, a sweet talker, and he could get whatever he wanted.

He nodded his head, and Sam got out of the car.

Lucifer wrapped his arm around Sam's and leaned close to whisper, "Who would have thought… he wanted two."

"Lucifer," Sam whispered back. "Are you joking? I'm not having sex with him!"

"Nobody is having any sex from this point forward except for you and me," Lucifer whispered back, grinning up at Sam. He handed Sam a hair tie, and the younger Winchester made quick work of pulling it to the base of his head. He made sure it was secure – more secure than last night – before he looked back up at Lucifer. There was something wild in his eyes, something Sam had imagined would be there, but had never seen for himself. He had only seen the aftermath before. The come down.

And tonight, he would get to see everything.

This motel wasn't high class like the ones the girls brought him to. It was a pay-by-the-hour with no surveillance, and the guy at the front desk pointedly looked away from everyone who walked in who didn't approach him directly, so the pair of them waltzed past without a problem, without anyone to identify they were ever there.

The other men had been found in a similar motel, and Sam's heart was in his throat.

Lucifer put his hand on the doorknob, but then he turned and looked at Sam. "This isn't a game, you know. If we leave DNA or trace here, we'll go to jail forever. Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Answer me one question first: were you doing this before me?"

"No," Lucifer grinned, leaning closer. "You're a homicide detective. I wanted to get your attention. It worked, didn't it?"

Sam looked at the door – number 12 – and breathed in.

"Only for you, Sam," Lucifer whispered, taking the taller man's face in his hands, angling his head to make sure they were looking at each other. "I'm just taking the necessary risks to provide a good life for you."

"What do you mean by that?" Sam whispered, leaning forward. For a moment, the pair rested their foreheads against one another. Even as Sam asked, he knew. He was a homicide detective. Looking away wasn't the same as not knowing. The name he gave the prostitute persona was a dead giveaway for the ties he had… his connections.

Lucifer angled his head, pressing his lips against Sam's briefly. "Do you trust me?"

"Yes," Sam breathed.

The call boy didn't say anything. He just grinned and opened the door. The bedroom was empty, but the bathroom door was closed. The room probably had several code violations – the carpets were disgusting and the sheets had been bleached so many time, the stench of it hung thick in the air – and when he turned back to look at Lucifer, he already had most of his clothes off. He folded them and sat them in a chair on the other side of the room, as far away from the bed as he could.

As he slipped his underwear down his thighs, he nodded at Sam, urging him to do the same.

Lucifer was hard, but he had no shame, no modesty, and he didn't try to cover himself when he found Sam looking. Instead, he stepped to the side, sliding off Sam's jacket, folding it, and putting it over his clothes.

When he turned away, Sam's eyes dropped. Lucifer had a great ass, and a tattoo of a black feather on his hip that was just hidden by his pants when he was dressed. He meant to trace the tattoo, but instead he frowned. He reached out, and Lucifer winced when Sam's fingers found his already lubed hole. "He already fucked you?" Sam whispered. "You haven't showered yet. Where's the condom?"

"This isn't my first rodeo, cowboy," Lucifer said, a grin on his face as he turned his head, keeping his back to Sam. The detective pushed two fingers into his body, and the man whined, not expecting it. He was still open, loose and fucked out from preparing himself and letting another man fuck him, and Sam could probably take him with very little resistance. When Sam changed his angle and let his fingers brush against Lucifer's prostate, the blond man's cock twitched. He grabbed Sam's wrist, a warning. "You can't make me come like this or, I'll…"

"I want to fuck you," Sam whispered, easing his fingers out of Lucifer's body. It was a dangerous request. It called for unnecessary risks, but Lucifer's eyes were dark with desire. He dug in his pocket, keeping one hand tight around something and presenting the condom in his other hand to Sam. The detective took it and made quick work of shucking off the rest of his clothes, folding them in a rush and adding them to the pile.

When he looked over, Lucifer had put something under the pillow, before situating his knees on a towel thrown over the bed. He balled his hands into fists before dropping them on the bed – the blanket was a large-weaved material, and even Castiel couldn't pull viable prints from a material like that – and the towel was more for sweat anyway.

Lucifer looked back over his shoulder and grinned. It was all the invitation Sam needed. He opened the foil packet, leaving it on the stand next to his clothes where he wouldn't forget it, and rolled the latex over his skin.

The lube on the bedside was common, sold in nearly every drugstore and Walmart in America, and even though he would get his prints on it by touching it, it would likely go with them anyway. He poured some onto his hand and rubbed it onto his cock still cool. He wiped his hand on the towel under Lucifer's knees and lined himself up, holding off before he pushed himself in.

The shower shut off.

"Do it," Lucifer hissed, and Sam couldn't deny him anything. He pushed in, holding Lucifer's hips still, groaning with the ease in which the blond man's body took him.

The bathroom door opened, and Sam fought the urge to pull out and hide himself. Instead, he took what was his. He started moving, thrusting into Lucifer's body with the man watching them.

The man who came out of the bathroom was dripping wet, the towel wrapped around his hips. Sam squeezed Lucifer's hip, thumb digging into the feather tattoo, a smile on his face. Any trace or DNA transferred between Lucifer and the man would have been washed off in the shower.

He was short – shorter than both Lucifer and Sam – with dark hair and dark eyes. It didn't take Sam long to place him, but he knew better than to announce who he was.

Crowley, Sam knew. He was a dealer for Kayipmalek, the Turkish mob. He had been picked up when the police had busted up a deal, but he walked later that day because he sure had a pretty singing voice.

The cops almost had enough to move in on one of the higher ups. They had Crowley's anonymous tip work to thank for that.

"What?" Crowley asked, walking toward them. "You couldn't wait ten bloody minutes before you started round two without me?"

Lucifer gave a little moan as Sam snapped his hips forward. The blond man reached out a hand, gesturing for Crowley to join them on the bed. He didn't question it; he just dropped the towel and climbed up and toward Lucifer.

"You just came so hard, I didn't think you'd be up for it again so soon. Thought we'd give you a show," Lucifer said, pushing himself up to his knees. Sam held him up by the hips, still thrusting into him. Lucifer didn't touch Crowley, but gestured under himself. "Come here and I'll blow you."

With a promise like that, Crowley laid down and Lucifer dropped his hands back to the bed, trapping the man under them. With Lucifer on his hands and knees, the pair of them didn't touch, and Crowley's hand dropped to his own dick, trying to tease it back to life.

Sam was getting close despite how weird it was having another man there while he was fucking into a body he loved so much, knowing that Crowley had already fucked him before Sam got there. He was possessed with it, the jealousy, and he wanted Lucifer to remember who he belonged to.

He wanted Crowley to remember who Lucifer belonged to.

Sam was into the breathy little moans Lucifer couldn't quite hold back and the way he thrust back, meeting him halfway. Sam wasn't really paying attention to Crowley, but he felt when Lucifer reached forward, grabbing whatever he left under the pillow earlier.

The detective's heart was pounding in his chest, and he knew he should stop, that this was wrong on so many levels, but he couldn't. He couldn't let Lucifer's hips out of his hands, not even when Lucifer slit Crowley's carotid artery, and the blood sprayed out in time with Crowley's heartbeats.

Lucifer was covered in it, and but he stayed there, rocking himself back on Sam's cock as he watched Crowley's blood pressure drop, and finally, he bled out.

Sam couldn't believe he was still hard. What the fuck was wrong with him?

"If you don't stop fucking me in one second, I'm going to come all over him," Lucifer hissed, and Sam finally let go of Lucifer's hip and pulled out. He wasn't even sweaty – the whole thing had happened so quickly – and when his feet met the carpet, he tugged the condom off. He kept it in his hand, not sure where to put it.

Lucifer was gripping the base of his dick when he turned around, and Sam couldn't really believe the look of him. There was blood everywhere – in his hair and face, it painted his chest, and some had transferred from his hand to his cock – and Sam nearly lost it.

"There's a bag with the other one under my clothes. Put that one in there. We'll get rid of it later."

Sam followed Lucifer's instructions and put the condom, the wrapper, and the bottle of lubricant into the bag. They should probably take the towel, Sam thought, but when he reached for it, he felt a hand on his hip.

"He paid for the night," Lucifer whispered. "We've got a bit of time. No need for it to waste."

Sam wasn't sure what he was talking about at first, but Lucifer's bloody hands found Sam's hips, holding him steady, and he took him down his throat with practiced ease.

Trace was a big thing – especially here – but his hands found Lucifer's bloody hair, trying to guide his lover's pace. The blond man looked up, blue eyes catching Sam's and he reached his hand up, placing it over Sam's chest. When he moved it away, a bloody handprint remained, and Sam wished he could have lasted longer, but time was of the essence anyway, regardless of what Lucifer said.

As always, Lucifer didn't spill a drop.

After that, they got in the shower.

Lucifer had been hard from before, and the second they cleaned the blood from his cock, Sam dropped to his knees, finally granting Lucifer his release. He was dazed for a long moment after that, complacent as Sam washed his hair and scrubbed the blood from him.

"That's the prettiest," Lucifer had commented, sounding drunk. "Watching the blood go down the drain."

When he looked back up at Sam, it wasn't Lucifer anymore. Nick was back for the cleanup, and they were efficient together. Sam knew Dean would order Castiel to search the bathroom, to rip apart the drain to search for hair, so they poured bleach into the tub, destroying any of the DNA that might have gotten washed down the drain. They checked for semen – there wasn't any – and they couldn't find hair or fibers either.

They put their clothes back on, took all the damning evidence with them, and climbed out the back door.

Nick was driving – they were going to some fancy grill-and-bar even though it was past eleven at night as a sort-of alibi and a sort-of celebration – but they were quiet on the ride. The only conversation that happened was brief.

Sam had asked, "What if we left something behind?"

"It depends on who finds it first," Nick shrugged. "I'm not the only Kayipmalek in the station."

"Did they ask you to kill him?"

Nick smiled. "I told you, I was chasing a homicide cop. I wanted to get your attention. I just happened to kill two birds with one stone. I'll be rewarded. I told you I wanted to provide for you."

It was wrong. It was so messed up, and Sam knew that, but he smiled back.

* * *

Sam got called to investigate his own crime scene. It was fucking weird, because he knew everything that happened, and he didn't know how to proceed without looking suspicious. Luckily, Dean was distracted and didn't notice.

* * *

Later that day, Michael Milton, the second-in-command of the Kayipmalek syndicate, publicly denied any involvement. He came to the show of his own volition, and he passed a polygraph and hissed, "Good riddance."

But there was a fat wad of cash left in Nick's desk after he left.

* * *

It wasn't until a week after the crime that Sam felt like he could really breathe again. Crowley's face was added to the corkboard, but they hadn't found any evidence. Dean wasn't supposing about two perps instead of one, and nothing could be traced back to the pair of them.

Sam was almost giddy with it when he and Nick showed up at Dean and Castiel's for dinner that Sunday. Technically, it was to celebrate Nick putting away a member of the Angelo crime family based on information he got from the man's wife (before he left that meeting to murder Crowley; Sam was incredibly impressed that Lucifer managed to have an alibi of _no sorry, I was getting information to put a rival gang leader in jail so I couldn't kill the guy who screwed over MY gang leader, not that you know I'm in the gang or anything _and he realized he had a lot to learn from Lucifer if he was going to survive as a mobster's boyfriend). Dean was going over case files at the kitchen table with a scotch and Castiel rolled up his sleeves as he went to get the food.

He wasn't wearing a watch. The black mark on his wrist was a tattoo. A black feather.

They talked about the case over dinner – it was good natured, despite the fact that half of the people at the table were who the other half were looking for – and Dean thought Lucifer's crappy conspiracy theories were funny if nothing else.

Sam had taken many criminology and psychology classes. He, like every cop and teenager on the planet, had a disturbing interest in serial killers. But it had always been an academic one; he had never expected the experience it firsthand.

And while he hadn't used the knife, he was there. And he felt a rush. He wouldn't get caught; he knew that Dean was blinded by their familial love. Dean would never suspect Sam, so he would never suspect Nick.

They could do it again. They could do it many more times.

"That's exactly what I mean," Dean said over his drink. "How many people have to die before he happens to mess up?"

Sam didn't smile. He wasn't going to give himself away. But he looked at Nick and thought about how many times they played the trace game. They were professionals. They wouldn't make a mistake, and even if they did… Sam's eyes fell to Castiel's tattoo. They had someone on the inside.

Instead, he just looked at Dean and shrugged. "Probably a lot."

* * *

Note: The Kayipmalek syndicate is derived from two Turkish words, Kayip and Malek, which translates into "Lost Angel."


End file.
